


Halloween Drabbles for Molly Hooper

by felinefemme



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Drabbles, F/F, F/M, M/M, Molly in drag, Molly is Frankenstein's creature, Molly is a Halloween party organizer, Molly is a cat girl, Molly is a ghost, Molly is a sweet transvestite, Molly is a vampire, Multi, My Fair Lady - Freeform, Rocky Horror Picture Show - Freeform, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-23 23:06:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8346349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felinefemme/pseuds/felinefemme
Summary: Here are a bunch of ideas I thought would be funny that would showcase Molly Hooper in different ways (read: totally OOC).  And cuz Halloween & weird & silly.Yeah.  That's all I got.





	1. Rocky Horror Picture Show

The host, a petite and lovely young man with the moustache, well-groomed hair, and clothing of a Victorian dandy, who declared himself a Dr. Frank N. Hooper, somehow charmed the befuddled and affianced couple of Dr. John Watson and Mary Morstan into staying at his strange castle full of strange people. The same strange people stripped the couple down to their undergarments, then watched as the host herded the blonde couple into an old-fashioned lift with an accordion door, which took them down into a dimly, but colorfully-lit laboratory. At the center of the lab was their host, standing imperiously next to a large tank filled with colorful liquids, a strange shape floating within. Above the tank was, improbably enough, a chandelier. Near the tank was the tall, yet hunchbacked bearded fellow who’d answered the door for John and Mary.

The petite young man with the moustache strode into the room, his dandyish costume covered with a blood-spattered butcher’s apron. He snapped at his assistant, “Anderson, throw open the switches on the sonic oscillator!”

Anderson, his spine seemingly hunched into a deferential and permanent bow, flicked the switches on the panel.

“And step up the reactor power input,” (and was interrupted by an unseen audience that startled the blonde couple every time because nobody else heard them, “THREE MORE TRIANGLES!”) three more points,” Hooper said after a dramatic pause, snapping on rather long silk gloves that looked less like lab gloves and more like those of a debutante at the ton. The servant did as his master bid (after said unseen audience shouted, “PUT YOUR HUMP INTO IT, ANDERSON!”), and then began to unwind a wheel on the machine. The chandelier was lowered, and spurted different colored liquids into the tank. The liquids bubble and the thing inside the tank starts to resemble something… human.

“John,” Mary stared hard at the tank.

“It’s alright, Mary,” her fiancé said, and held her hand. (The unseen audience shouted, “HE’S WORKING SO HARD HE’S GOT STEAM COMING OUT OF HIS ASS! YELLOW MOONS, GREEN CLOVERS, BLUE DIAMONDS, AND PURPLE HORSESHOES!” John bit the inside of his lip to keep from sputtering out a laugh as the colorful liquids glowed just those colors, and Mary was suspiciously tight-lipped.)

The liquids drained away from the tank, and the form inside begin to move. Their host climbed up a ladder on one side of the tank, and the hunched servant climbed the other. The creature, who looked like a tall, wiry man with a riot of dark curly hair and pale eyes, sat up, raised his arms, and finally stood upright with both arms outstretched, not unlike another creation made by another mad scientist. “Oh, Sherlock!” the mad scientist clasped his gloved hands together in an ecstatic pose. (The unseen audience yelled, “SAY SOMETHING INTELLIGENT, SHERLOCK!” To the creature’s embarrassment, the first noise to come forth was a deep, unintelligible groan.)

But the creature made up for it when he (and the strange guests) started singing about waking up in a gorgeous voice, while the two female servants, called Sally and Martha, snipped the mummy-like bandages off the creature. The short yet terrifying host attempted to seduce, then pursue the creature, but the long-legged creature, who ended up wearing nothing but gold lamé pants, easily outran the shorter doctor.

From out of nowhere, a posh, omniscient narrator with a beaky nose, tweed outfit, and large book, read, “Sherlock needed peace of mind./He didn’t know/He was doing just fine. He was the product/Of another time./And as for feeling down-/Well, that’s not a crime.”

When Frank finally pinned Sherlock against the tank, he pouted. “Well. That’s no way to behave on your first day out.” Sherlock pouted back, his bow-shaped lips somehow made his pout cuter. (“CAN YOU FORGIVE HIM?”) “But as you’re such an exceptional beauty (“ARE YOU GONNA FORGIVE HIM?”), I’m prepared to forgive.” As he ran a gloved finger along the creature’s bicep, the unseen audience yelled, “IF YOU’RE HAPPY AND YOU KNOW IT CLAP THE BARS, IF YOU’RE HAPPY AND YOU KNOW IT CLAP THE BARS, IF YOU’RE HAPPY AND YOU KNOW IT AND YOU REALLY WANT TO SHOW IT, IF YOU’RE HAPPY AND YOU KNOW IT CLAP THE BARS!” “I just love success!” the host clapped the bars in delight.

“He is a credit to your genius, Master,” Anderson groveled as he joined his master.

“Yes,” Frank purred, his eyes only on Sherlock.

“A triumph of your will,” Sally slinked over to her brother (John wasn’t quite clear how that worked).

“Yes,” the mad doctor smirked.

The old woman shrugged in her colorful jim-jams. “He’s okay,” Martha said. (“FUCKED UP!” the audience yelled, and the blonde couple inwardly agreed.)

(“WHAT DID SHE SAY?”) _“Okay?”_ (“MORE EMPHASIS!”) _“OKAY!?”_ Frank glared at her, then moved towards the couple in their underpants, who’d been trying the “stay still and they won’t see us” tactic, but to no avail. “I think we can do a little better than that.” (“WHY DON’T YOU ASK JOHN AND MARY?” Shit, thought John, and Fuck off, thought Mary.) He paused. “You,” he pointed an aristocratic gloved finger at the blonde man. “What do you think?”

(“DON’T ASK JOHN, HE’LL LIE!”) “Well,” the good doctor cleared his throat, as he thought, Fuck OFF to the unseen audience, “I don’t like it when men don’t appear to have any muscles.” (“JUST ONE BIG ONE!” the audience cheerfully hollered, and Mary bit her lower lip to keep from snorting out loud.)

“I didn’t make him for you!” the sweet transvestite declared with his hands on his hips, arching a dark eyebrow at the blonde man. (“THAT’S WHAT YOU THINK!” the unseen audience shouted back, then continue with, “WHAT DOES HE CARRY?”) “He carries the Charles Atlas Seal of Approval.” Music started up out of nowhere again, which seemed to be the case for everything, apparently. (The unseen audience clapped and made seal noises for “seal of approval,” a pun John could get behind.) (“DESCRIBE ANDERSON.”) “A weakling weighing 98 pounds, (“THAT’S ANDERSON”) will get sand in his face when kicked to the ground. And soon in the gym with a determined chin, the sweat from his pores (“I CAN’T READ THIS SHIT!”) as he works for his cause. Will make him glisten (“WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE TOOTHPASTE?”) and gleam and with massage and just a little bit of (“VASELINE”) steam. (“GO FOR THE GOLD, BUT MISS THE HOLE!”) He’ll be pink and quite clean. He’ll be a strong man, oh honey, but the wrong man!" (“SHOW US KING KONG’S DICK!”) "He’ll eat nutritious, high protein, and swallow raw eggs, try to build up his shoulders, his chest, arms, and (“BALLS!”) legs!” Frank’s raised eyebrow at the same time as the unseen audience’s shout had John and Mary pressing their lips tightly to keep from falling over laughing. “Such an effort, if he only knew of my plan, in just seven days (“AND SIX LONG NIGHTS!”) I can make you a (“FAG, JUST LIKE YOUR DAD!”) man! He’ll do press-up and chip-ups. Do (“MARY’S!”) the snatch, clean, and jerk. (“OFF!”) He digs dynamic tension, must be hard work. Such strenuous living, I just don’t understand when in just seven days. (“AND SIX LONG NIGHTS!”) I can make you a (“FAG! JUST LIKE YOUR DAD!”) man!”

When a wild gray-haired man in a leather jacket and jeans broke into the lab on a motorcycle and caused pandemonium, Mary couldn’t help it. She gave John a delighted grin. “Well, definitely not bored now, are you?” she murmured.

“Definitely not _straight_ now, either,” he murmured back, and they shared a brief grin before everything went to hell.


	2. Cat Girl

Molly Hooper had always had cat features. Cat ears, cat nose, cat whiskers, cat claws, and cat tails. All the Hoopers did, in fact, and she was proud of her family and her extra features. She learned that in Japan, it was a cute thing to have in cartoons, so that made her extra happy. She grew up as a typical girl, she loved cute things, frills, the color pink, and horses. She also loved to play in the mud, catch insects, and race her brothers on their bicycles. She knew she was smart, and her parents encouraged her to take more science classes, since she loved it so much.

When she grew older, however, she found that her love of science was rather different than, say, her brother Bobby's, who went into computer programming. And when she graduated from college, she became a pathologist, and was good at it. She still loved cute things, as reflected in her blog, but she also loved her job, as reflected in her proficiency and reading up on new studies.

And then a whirlwind named Sherlock Holmes blew through the morgue, and she was instantly smitten. Yes, he was a rude child, but he was also very, very intelligent, and although Detective Inspector Lestrade looked like he'd aged a decade after bringing the obviously-recovering addict in, he was a fair judge of character and wouldn't let just anyone into the morgue. So she let the expected insults roll off her, but was pleasantly surprised when Holmes said, "You might have more hair than anyone on staff, but your autopsies are the most precise and thorough pieces of work I've seen since Weatherly retired."

With that, Molly was gone. Weatherly was her mentor, and the fact that Holmes had complimented her on her job thrilled her. The fact that he was rather attractive didn't hurt, either. "Thank you," she smiled, and he blinked, surprised the phrase was directed at him. Apparently, not many people complimented him on his brains, either, which was sad. "I look forward to working with you, too, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock," he corrected her, then swept out of the room in a dark, heavy coat that he wore simultaneously like a cape and like armor.

Lestrade followed after him, shaking his head.

It didn't matter, Molly was gone, dead gone on him, a soppy smile on her face as her tail twitched under her lab coat, and she waited until the taps of the bespoke shoes faded entirely from her hearing. Then she sighed, glad nobody could hear her soppy sigh, and went back to work.


	3. Frankenstein’s Creature

The mad scientist cackled, well, madly, as the lightning flashed and lit up the makeshift mad scientist laboratory. The large table bore a small, sheet-covered body connected to wires attached to an antennae propped on the window, and it shook when the lightning bolt shot through it. “Look, it’s moving!” the mad scientist exclaimed loudly, even though his assistant, a short blonde man who sighed incessantly, had perfect hearing.

“I’ve got perfect sight, too,” John Watson muttered. “Seriously, why are we doing this, Sherlock?”

Sherlock Holmes, a.k.a. the mad scientist, bared all his teeth in a grin as wild as his dark hair. “Because I can!”

John sighed. “Fine. Just, return the body when you’re finished, okay? And the brain. The jar’s right there,” he pointed at the container partially filled with the preservative liquids.

But Sherlock’s attention is on the body under the sheet. “John, wait!” he cried out. “It appears there’s tachycardial pulsations! And respiratory functions operating!”

“You could just say the heart’s beating and there’s breathing,” John grumbled, but curiosity won out, and he returned to the body on the lab table. He checked for a pulse, which was a bit hard to hear, what with all the racket from the storm, and held out a microscope slide over the body’s mouth. Then he reared back and stared at the mad scientist, er, his friend. “Oh my God!” he gasped. “It’s alive!”

“Not ‘it’,” Sherlock’s pale eyes seemed alight with the very lightning from the storm. “ _She_! She’s alive! I told you! She’s ALIVE!!!” He waved his hands triumphantly, then clapped as another bolt of lightning sent another jolt through the body. “ALIVE, I TELL YOU!”

“Oh, shut up,” a groggy, decidedly female voice said from under the sheet. “Can’t a girl get some sleep around here?”

Both men pulled up short. “What?” Sherlock blinked.

A huge yawn sounded from under the sheet, then a squeak. “Where’s my clothes?” she asked.

“Um, you didn’t have any,” John said, surprised into blushing.

There was a long silence. Then the voice went on, more querulously, “Where am I? Who are you? And where are my clothes?”

Sherlock was blinking rapidly as his brain was recalculating the current events. John sighed again. “You’re in Bart’s morgue. My friend’s the mad scientist, I’m just… his friend--”

“Co-conspirator,” the taller man interrupted.

“Shut up, Sherlock,” the blonde man rolled his eyes, “and as far as I know, your clothes have been disposed of in the incinerator, if it isn’t evidence for some homicide.” Then he paused. “According to the autopsy, the body belonged to a Jane Doe homicide found in a skip.”

“I was found in a _skip_?” she was outraged.

“No, your brain, well, _you_ were donated to Bart’s for science,” John answered, “from what surprisingly sparse information we got from the file, you were a woman who passed in your early 30’s, no known illness, but no crime attached. I picked it because it was relatively healthy, otherwise.”

“Lovely,” she grumbled. “Thanks for not sticking it in some man’s body, the dysmorphia would’ve been an extra hurdle to deal with.”

“And surprisingly intelligent,” Sherlock added.

“ ‘Surprisingly’?” she echoed, then sat up with a glare. “I’ll have you know I graduated at the top of my class and a well-respected pathologist, to boot!” Then she squeaked again as the sheet slid down, and John turned around, accordingly. And turned his friend around. Then she groaned. “Why couldn’t you have put me in a body with bigger breasts?” she wailed.

Sherlock whirled back around, ignoring her squeak of surprise and her pulling the sheet back up. “Oh, excuse me for not being able to read the mind of disembodied brain!” he glared right back. “I was too busy trying to bring a dead person back to life!”

“Well, thanks for that!” she shot back. Then she narrowed her eyes. “Were you planning to raise a zombie army, or was it just out of sick curiosity to see if you could Frankenstein a body?”

“The latter,” Sherlock replied before John could smother him. The shorter man only wiped a hand down his face in despair.

“She’s going to kill us,” John said in a sing-song voice.

“Quiet, John, that only happens in movies,” Sherlock muttered.

“My ears work fine, Sherlock and John,” the woman tied the sheet around her body. Then she looked around. “If Bart’s is the same,” she murmured to herself, then smiled suddenly and hopped off the table. Both men looked surprised at her agility and muscle control. Apparently, the coma exercises Sherlock had insisted on for the body paid off. She tried the large desk drawers and crowed with delight when one held women’s clothes. “Knew it! Someone always has a spare in case a body explodes and it’s too far to walk to the locker room!” She practically skipped into the smaller office to the side and came out less than ten minutes later fully dressed, her long brown hair tied neatly in a ponytail. The plaid blouse clashed horribly with the tan trousers, and the shoes were less for fashion than for comfort, but she was grateful that they fit her at all. She was also quite thankful for the knickers and pants included, but she felt the two idiots didn’t need to know about that.

“From a superficial standpoint, thank you for giving me a relatively healthy body, you can barely see the scalp stitches,” she said, which gave John a bit of medical pride. “So. Did you have any plans for me should your experiment prove successful, or am I going to have to regain my old job based on my deceased records?” She pointed at her face. “I don’t even look like myself any more, I couldn’t even prove those were mine in the first place.”

“What was your name?” Sherlock asked.

She sighed, and the clothes suddenly seemed borrowed and ill-fitting, rather than full of the new life she was given. “Plain old Molly Hooper,” she said, then bit her lower lip. “With my luck, they probably don’t even remember what I looked like, anyways.”

But Sherlock didn’t seem to hear or comprehend her distress. “But such a common name for such an uncommon job,” he said, his pale eyes piercing her suddenly brown ones. “An undead pathologist in a lab full of corpses. How utterly ironic.”

“First time I’ve heard you understand the meaning of that word,” John shook his head.

But her large brown eyes flitted back and forth between the two men. “Oh God,” she stared at them in dawning realization, “neither of you had a plan for success. You didn’t expect this to work. Of course not. I wouldn’t have expected it to work, and I’m a pathologist. Was a pathologist,” she corrected herself. “This is worse than what happened to Eliza Doolittle, although the pair of you are rather like Professor Higgins and Colonel Pickering.”

“I beg to differ,” John murmured while Sherlock glanced between the two of them. “Who are they? And what happened to Eliza Doolittle?”

“They’re from a musical, ‘My Fair Lady’,” Molly answered, seeing the mischievous glint in the blonde man’s eyes and stopping it. “Higgins and Pickering are two so-called gentlemen have a bet on whether or not they could teach a lower-class flower girl how to speak posh English and behave like a lady. Of course, the two gits didn’t provide her with adequate career training once the lessons were learned and bet was over, but she managed to start a flower shop, according to the play, or stuck living with the stuck-up professor in the movie.” She smiled grimly. “I much prefer the play’s ending myself.”

“Lucky for you, Sherlock’s older brother is the British government, so you could have some kind of paperwork in hand and you’re not stuck at completely zero,” and John tilted his head meaningfully at his friend. “Right?”

The taller man blinked, then sniffed. “Telling Mycroft takes all the fun out of it,” he pouted, but dutifully rung his older brother. “Yes, I’m actually calling,” he gritted out when his brother answered, “I need you to do a favor. Not for me, it’s for a woman. I’ve put her in a bit of a situation--”

“Not helping!” Molly wailed, then covered her face. John shook his head and looked away. He knew Sherlock only made things worse before they got better. Well, hopefully they got better, in Molly’s case.

“Yes, that’s her,” Sherlock went on, heedlessly. “Her name’s Molly Hooper, deceased, and I need you to retrieve her files and update them.” He paused as his brother prattled on until he got to the bargaining. Finally. “Yes, I’ll owe you cases. Ten! No! Five!” He sighed gustily. “Fine, seven, and I’ll escort Mummy to whatever musical catches her fancy.” He sighed again. “Yes, him, too. Fine.” He frowned as his brother went on. Then he broke in, “No, it’s not like that. She’ll be very useful to me.”

“You’d be useful with a scalpel in your carotid artery,” Molly muttered.

Sherlock scowled as his brother laughed. Horrible git. And why was Molly insulting him when he’s trying to help her? Ungrateful. “If you’re done, that’s all,” he said, and hung up. Then he plastered a large, insincere smile on his face. “Well, my brother should take care of all the paperwork, you should be gainfully employed here at Bart’s morgue, you’ll be provided with clothing and toiletries, and you’ll need to brush up on your technologies and procedures.” He smiled a sharp smile. “Welcome to the twenty-first century, Molly Hooper.”

She laughed, then froze when neither of the men joined her. “What’s today’s date?” she asked slowly.

“October 24, 2011,” John said promptly.

Her pale face became even paler, but she didn’t faint. “What?” she asked, in an unsteady voice.

Sherlock, seeing that his brother was correct in his disgustingly quick file retrieval, pulled out his mobile. Might as well accustom little Miss Hooper to the modern world, such as it was. “Mobile phone,” he said, “shows the date and time. Also calls nosy older brothers and ill-tempered army doctors.”

“Sherlock!” John resented that remark.

But Molly’s eyes were on the mobile. “It’s a trick,” she said, “this whole thing. It’s a movie, you’ve drugged me, this is all a bad dream.”

Sherlock sighed. “You saw the face in the mirror, you felt the cold marble tile under your bare feet,” he said, “and you know, absolutely, that it’s not 1979.”

She nodded, then fell into a dead faint. John caught her before she hit the floor, and he glared up at his friend. “Sherlock! Really?”

His friend shrugged. “I knew you’d catch her,” he said, then proceeded to dismantle the strange contraption that brought Molly Hooper back to life. “She’ll have to stay at Baker Street with us for the time being until she becomes acclimated to this time.”

John frowned at the woman lying limp in his arms. “1979. Unbelievable. Her brain was sitting around all those years and it’s still in top shape.”

“Yes, well,” Sherlock grunted as he bend the bars into smaller shapes for easier disposal, “She was also relatively young when she passed. Good on you for not picking a centenarian brain.”

John shook his head. “You really are Professor Higgins,” he grumbled, then frowned. “Sherlock? Were you serious about bringing her to Baker Street?”

“Of course,” Sherlock said, nettled. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Oh, because we’re two strange men,” the blonde man rolled his eyes, “one of whom keeps eyeballs in the microwave and fingers in the kettle!”

“She’s a pathologist, she should be used to it,” the taller man snapped back. “You’re an army doctor, I’m surprised you’re still squeamish.”

“Because I expect body parts not to be where food and drink are,” John practically recited. “I’m sure she does, too.”

“Ugh,” Sherlock grumbled. “Expectations.”

“And where’s she going to sleep?” John went on, repositioning Molly so that he could carry her on his back. “I’ve got the upstairs, you’ve got the down, and Mrs. Hudson’s in 221A.”

“She’ll take your room, you’ll take mine, because you know not to touch my things, and I’ll sleep on the couch if necessary.” He grinned, shoving the antennae into one of the many large pockets in his coat. “Come along, John, Mycroft should have her files completely forged by now, and it would look suspicious if we were seen carrying out Bart’s new pathologist.”

“If I told them she got drunk out of self-preservation, they’d believe me,” John smiled his “innocent” smile, which made Sherlock pout. He grunted as he readjusted the woman’s weight, then piggybacked her out of the morgue.


	4. Halloween Party

The pathologist was her usual cheery self as she flitted from one conversation to another, trying to be a good host. After all, it was her party, and felt that justified her staying in her office clothes, white lab coat included. “Have you seen the ghost of John? Long white bones and the rest all gone,” Molly sang as she pushed the demo skeleton wearing a jumper around the classroom repurposed as a Halloween party locale. “Wouldn’t it be silly with no skin on?”

“I hate you all,” John muttered as he wore a full-bodied costume from some gory Japanese cartoon series that Molly had “thoughtfully” purchased for him. He really wondered about cartoons these days. He’s doing his best not to wonder about his friends, but they’re making it hard for him. Instead, he helped himself to the punch, which he’s sure both he and Mrs. Hudson have spiked at different times, because it’s got a vodka kick on top of the rum he’s added.

Molly only smiled sweetly, then wheeled the be-jumpered skeleton to its original spot near the professor’s desk. She straightened her white lab coat, then helped herself to the gelatin brains she’d made, among the many potluck offerings on the lab table. “Oh good, they’re still oozing gelatin,” she beamed as she poked her slice. She offered Mike Stamford and his wife, Betty, a slice, but only the former took it. The Stamfords were well-dressed as Tommy and Tuppence Beresford, as Betty was a great Agatha Christie fan.

Lestrade, clad in all black with black gloves and knit cap (“Thought I’d look like a criminal for a laugh”) frowned slightly while Mrs. Hudson, dressed like a witch, sighed. But the landlady’s renters had no problem devouring the fake brains, and Sherlock, who was wearing his usual clothes, enjoyed slurping the oozing brains in front of his older brother. Mycroft, surprisingly dressed in a black turtleneck and denim jeans (“Have none of you heard of Steve Jobs?”) merely huffed and rolled his eyes. Sherlock took that to mean it was okay to slip out into the hallway for some much-needed alone time.

Said alone time was standing in the hallway, taking a smoke. He knew somebody would come out sooner or later, but he thought he’d enjoy himself while he could. He honestly couldn’t believe the nerve of Molly, inviting his brother. Since it wasn’t at his and John’s flat, however, he couldn’t complain. Well, within earshot of Molly, that is.

After that awkward Christmas party, he was determined not to be entirely horrible to Molly Hooper, but at the same time, he didn’t want to disappoint John Watson, who’d wanted him to come along. He exhaled, the plume of smoke obscuring his vision temporarily before it dissipated into the circulating air vents. He closed his eyes, tempted to delete the Christmas party yet again. He knew John would think it more than a bit not good if he were to forget everything about that time, but it chafed in a way that made him itch inside.

Even though she hadn’t mentioned the Christmas party, or Irene Adler, he was aware that his words had hurt her in a way his previous words and behavior hadn’t. He wasn’t accustomed to taking others’ feelings into consideration, except for manipulation, and her being hurt, although polite and professional, hurt his manipulation abilities. The Mycroft in his mind sneered that even he could do a better job of manipulating, but Sherlock scowled and dismissed him with another drag on his cigarette. This was as close to a compromise between accepting Molly’s invitation, making her happy, and being “polite” as he could, making John happy. Ugh. Tiring.

As if he’d summoned her just by thinking about her, Molly practically fell out the door. “Oh! Sherlock!” she gasped, then laughed when the door smacked her lightly on the behind as it shut. Her cheeks were tinted pink by the alcohol in the punch, then she frowned. “Why are you smoking?”

“Keeps me from drinking the punch,” he answered.

Molly nodded, then looked as serious as one could get while still upright and plastered to pieces. “Between you and me,” she whispered loudly, like a child who hadn’t learned not to yell indoors yet, “Mrs. Hudson put too much vodka in the punch.”

Sherlock nodded back. He could definitely smell the none-too-subtle scent from the pathologist. “Is everyone equally inebriated, or must I stay here much longer?”

She squinted hard, then nodded. “Yes.”

He bit back a laugh. “Not helpful, Molly.”

“Sorry,” she shook her head, then winced. “Ugh. Too much vodka reacting with the rum. I’ll feel horrible in the morning. I should set some paracetamol by the bedside.”

He narrowed his pale eyes at her. “Do you always self-analyze when drunk?”

She closed her eyes and huffed a laugh. “Yeah. It makes people think I’m sober, when I’m really not. I think it’s just my social filters taken off and all that’s left is my dissection skills.”

He was curious. “Have you ever dissected anyone drunk?”

She opened her large brown eyes and glared at him. “Of course not,” she said, “I have an obligation as a professional to be perfectly sober, or at least, be horribly sober while fighting off symptoms of nausea, as I perform my duties to the best of my abilities.” A corner of her mouth lifted up. “Besides, my coordination’s worse when I’m drunk, I tend to overcompensate with brute strength, which isn’t as helpful as you’d think for autopsies.”

Another thought occurred to him. “You probably broke up with Jim while drunk, too. It wasn’t liquid courage you needed, it was cold, hard facts.”

She nodded slightly. “When I break down the breakdown of our relationship, men are usually grateful that I seem matter-of-fact about it. If I were sober, I’d probably sugarcoat it so well, they wouldn’t know I’d broken up with them until a week later. And yes, that’s happened, but not since uni.”

Sherlock smirked. “Molly Hooper, heartbreaker.”

“Shut up,” she grumbled, then she lifted her chin. “Sherlock Holmes, I’m commanding you to summon me a cab and take me home.”

He gave her a wry look. “And why would I do that, Molly Hooper?”

“Because then you have an excuse to go home early and stay there,” she said.

Hm. That wasn’t bad, for drunk logic. “Very well,” he said, then opened the classroom door and stuck his head in. “I’m taking Molly home, good night.” And before his brother, the only sober person in the room, could object, he closed the door and hooked the drunk pathologist’s arm in his. “Come on, then,” he said, “there’s a black chariot awaiting somewhere.”

She giggled, and walked along with him. Even though she had organized the party, cleaned out and decorated the classroom, and was relieved everyone had showed up and were enjoying themselves, she was more than a bit tired now that her duties were over. Her social phase only lasted so long, and it seemed the more responsibility she had, the less likely she was to want social interaction. Oh dear, she hoped Sherlock wasn’t rubbing off on her. “Remind me that I’m still social when I want to be,” she told Sherlock when they got in the cab.

A brief smile flickered across his features, and he opened his mouth to retort, but she’d already slumped to the side, her eyes closed and her breathing even. He shook his head, only ten percent paying attention to the route they were taking to Molly’s flat and her well-being, eighty percent on Moriarty, and five each to John and Mrs. Hudson.


	5. Vampire

“You went out with Jim Moriarty and you didn’t sense a kindred evil?”

Molly narrowed her large brown eyes at Sherlock as she finished drying her hands. The half-empty blood bag was back in the cooler, its purpose served. “Vampires aren’t the same as evil, idiot,” she said. “Besides, Jim was rather charming. Unlike some people.”

“Until he straps you into an explosive-laden vest,” John muttered. “Don’t worry, Molly, I think he’s just miffed he didn’t get the part about you being a vampire straight off.”

“It’s always _something_ ,” Sherlock grumbled, looking mutinous.

Molly rolled her eyes, then sighed. “We don’t go around biting people randomly,” she ticked off, “only the newbies without a mentor do that, and we tend to slap them down quickly.”

“And if they continue?” Sherlock looked up, interested.

Of course he would be, she thought. But she answered, “Then we kill them. It’s not like they weren’t a step away from being totally dead anyways.”

“You’re frighteningly more practical than I’d expect from a woman who likes cats,” the consulting detective noted.

“Oh, shut up,” she sighed. “Anyways, we don’t turn into dust in the sunlight, but it was a nice thought Bram Stoker thought up. We don’t exactly tan, however, unless we were tan or dark-skinned in the first place. And we definitely don’t sparkle, only the Fair Folk do that, hence the name.” She quirked a smile. “Also, wooden stakes don’t kill us. Sorry.”

“But you do become a vampire if one imbibes the original vampire’s blood after being bit, correct?” Sherlock queried.

She nodded. “You’ve seen the bloodwork. It shows up as a kind of anemia in the hospital network, which, technically, it is.” She smiled. “What does it look like to you?”

John leaned over as Sherlock answered, “As you said, like a sort of anemia derived from cancer or perhaps kidney disease. But that’s what your kind want, isn’t it? So that the patient will receive blood without any questions. Neat.”

Molly’s nod is enthusiastic. “Isn’t it? I’m so glad someone else thought of that years ago, before computer networks were invented! It makes it seem more legitimate.”

John shook his head after he finished peering through the lab’s microscope. “By all rights, you should be hooked up to a blood bag now.”

Molly’s eyes fluttered wider. “Oh, sorry, I guess I forgot to eat in all the excitement.”

“How can you eat and subsist on blood?” Sherlock frowned.

She shrugged. “How can you eat and drink water?” she said. “We’ve got options.” Her lips tighten. “And before you ask me about my weight gain, I’d suggest you table that thought until you can stand a 2,000 psi punch. Yes, I was holding back when I slapped your face.”

“Why now?” Sherlock asked. “And why not use your abilities to--”

“I’m no superhero,” Molly interrupted. “You know me. Well, mostly. I’m not good with live people, I like happy things, and I really like my job. If possible, I’d like to do it forever, unless the future holds something better. I’m no John Watson.”

John snorted. “You’re saying I’m a superhero?” he grinned.

“No need trying to be humble,” Sherlock sniffed, “you know what you are.”

The blonde doctor’s head reared back a bit in mock surprise. “A compliment? Molly, a miracle!”

“Shut up,” the dark-haired man snipped. “Nice diversion, Dr. Hooper. But you neglected to answer my initial question. Why now?”

“Why not?” Molly shrugged. “I figured that you’d let me continue to do my job. After all, it is what I’m best at, not doing what you and John do. All right?” She waited, and Sherlock found that he couldn’t outwait or outwit Molly on this, and nodded sullenly. “And no experiments on me. That sample’s the only one you’re going to get, so take care of it, and if you try to obtain more by illegal means, I’m going to bite you.”

“That’s hyperbole, isn’t it?” John asked nervously. “And no, Sherlock, do not make her bite you on purpose, or I swear I’ll punch you out and you’ll find yourself strapped down and hooked up to an IV drip.”

“Why wait?” Sherlock lowered his voice and winked.

John tilted his head, a sudden, dangerous grin on his face, and punched Sherlock out. “Why wait, indeed,” he murmured as Sherlock Holmes stayed unconscious. Then he cleared his throat, then looked up at the pathologist. “Um, thanks for letting us know, albeit in a dramatic, Holmesian way.”

“Only way he’d believe,” Molly smiled pleasantly. “He doesn’t always trust hearsay. Good luck, and have a nice day.”

He nodded, then hoisted his friend over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. “Ugh, you, too.”

She waved, then flipped the visor back down, picked up the handsaw, and started cutting through Mr. Quentin Hardcastle’s skull. She did have a job to do, after all, and thankfully, the silly demonstration didn’t take longer than a few minutes.


	6. Ghost

Molly Hooper was bored. She’d been in St. Bartholomew’s morgue since, well, since she had to disguise herself as a man in order to practice the profession she’d chosen, a morgue surgeon. They were called different titles these days, and she amused herself going to the classes where they taught both men and women. She tried not to be amused that some things never changed, that men and women still cavorted nude when they thought they were alone, or that sometimes, it was men and men, or women and women.

Still, she got bored. It took a lot to get bored, but then, she’d been here for over two centuries. So when she got bored, she tossed things around. Left messages on the walls (they called it “graffiti” these days). Got the skeletons to dance a bit and give the new students a bit of a scare. She supposed if a little Hallows’ Eve prank got them scared, they shouldn’t be working in a morgue in the first place. She’d gone through much worse, but then, it was the 1880s, and life was dangerous as a rule.

Once in a while, there would be someone interesting, so she’d follow them around for as far as she could. She knew it wasn’t a nice thing to do, but she got so very, very bored at times. It was nicer than what she’d seen and heard of other ghosts doing, but she made sure to give people their privacy when they went to the loo.

Her latest project, er, person she was following was a strange young man. She supposed they were all young, even though she’d only died in her early thirties. Having a couple of centuries on people did tend to make her feel ancient, especially when she saw those with excessive technical proficiency at work. This strange young man, passing himself off as a student and calling himself “Sherlock Holmes”, was one such person. She’d seen geniuses before, fake and real, and he was the real thing. He could look at a person and determine who and what they were, and, unfortunately for him, told them everything, especially the negative qualities, in a well-crafted, quickly-spoken fashion.

She was extremely disappointed, therefore, when she saw signs of Sherlock’s illicit drug use. So she flushed the drugs, incinerated the needles and other paraphernalia, and wasn’t surprised when he decided to drop out. It was disappointing, but he wouldn’t be the first medical student to leave due to addiction, and he probably wouldn’t be the last. In a fit of pique, she wrote, “1 DOWN, MORE 2 GO” when he left. Morbid humor, but then, she was a ghost.

Molly was surprised, therefore, when Sherlock Holmes returned to Barts some years later. He was sober, sometimes painfully so, and older. To the untrained eye, he looked like a child, and he often behaved like one. But his intellect was as sharp as ever, as was his tongue, and she was somewhat relieved to see him again. So, in similar childishness, she dropped a door stop in his path and tripped him up.

He sputtered, his thin form covered by a thick, dark coat, and straightened up with a glare. “Oh, it’s you,” he muttered, since there was no one else in the morgue. He’d timed his visit so that the head pathologist wouldn’t see him messing about with the victim of a possible homicide (not accidental death, as was originally stated by the idiot Met forensic man). But he’d had run-ins with the Phantom of the Morgue, even though said “phantom” had its way throughout the hospital and its grounds. But it had a particular fondness, so to speak, for the morgue. At least, its physical presence seemed stronger, according to his past experiments. “Were you bored, Phantom, without me around?” he smirked humorlessly.

There was no answer, and he expected none. He’d never believed in the supernatural before visiting Bart’s, but the phantom was undeniable. The drug loss alone was testament to that, and even as a paranoid, half-mad addict, he’d kept his stash hidden well enough from even his older brother, whose large nose was practically everywhere. In fact, he’d suspected his brother at first, but when his rantings about personal property were dismissed with an annoyance and a wave, rather than the dangerously quiet indignation his bout with drugs usually brought about (before a trip to rehab), Sherlock thought the security at the teaching hospital was unreasonably strict. But when he looked further into it, he found it was as negligent as any other university, and, after one too many times of his stash being found and disposed of, he felt his addiction was more important than whatever small intelligence he could gather from this place.

And now he was back, trying to prove himself to the newly-minted Detective Inspector Lestrade. Trying to prove that he was sober, trying to prove that his skills, such as they were, were useful and not just a parlour trick, trying to prove that he could be trusted enough to be a help to the police, not a suspect as many of the others thought.

Once again, he was reminded of the ghost’s presence as it idly rifled through the autopsy report on the body he was re-examining. The ghost was smart, he’d give it that, must have been a pathologist of some sort, since it tapped on the victim’s rib cage impatiently. He gave the report another glance, then smiled savagely. “Ha! The breaks on the ribs were a more recent one, six months perhaps, not a childhood one as that idiot Anderson claimed.” He strode off, but not without encountering the door stop, yet again, in an unexpected place.

He narrowed his eyes. “You are a credit to the institution,” he said to nothing in particular, and ran out, impatient to give Lestrade his findings. As of yet, his brother wasn’t trusting him not to abuse the privilege of a mobile, as previous burner phones were, well, discovered and burned.

By and by, Molly got used to the self-proclaimed consulting detective’s presence in the morgue, and actually tried to help him in his investigations. She couldn’t help her impatience when both the Metropolitan Police’s forensics and Bart’s own pathologists got it wrong, so she’d let the pale man in without him having to resort to picking the locks. He could do that elsewhere, he wasn’t damaging her morgue’s property, thank you! And when Mike Stamford, the pleasant professor from upstairs, brought John Watson, a former student, into one of the labs to meet Sherlock, she beamed with happiness. Watson wasn’t a brilliant student, but he was hardworking, clever enough, and a cheeky rascal with a sense of humor that apparently Stamford remembered. Watson, however, had become more serious, and apparently more damaged, judging by the cane and limp. And by the deduction that Sherlock rattled off, but the fact that neither man was annoyed or scared by the other gave her high hopes for her genius

She was glad that John had stayed a doctor, even after he’d left to go fight in a war overseas, and she would hug Stamford if she could. That, and if he wouldn’t have a heart attack if she did so. He had a generous, easy-going soul, but she doubted he’d want that soul to leave his body any time soon, he startled far too easily for a medical man. As a reward, she tried to steer better students towards the genial professor. It was the least she could do, after all.

She continued to help Sherlock and John, especially since John knew of her, as well. Sometimes, when they were alone in the morgue, he’d joke around and try to play Twenty Questions with her, guessing who she was when she died. Sherlock would harrumph and attempt to gather the blonde man’s attention back to himself, but once in a while, he’d give in to curiosity and ask her questions as well. Both men were surprised when she answered that she was female. After all, an earlier answer had determined that she’d died in 1896 at Bart’s. “But, women weren’t admitted until years later,” John sputtered.

Sherlock snorted. “Our phantom is clever, yes? She circumvented it by cross-dressing, as most women did to succeed in a man’s world.” The thump of a dropped pen, her version of “yes” made him smirk.

“All right,” John huffed, then narrowed his dark blue eyes. “Does that mean you’ve peeked into the men’s?”

“Of course she has, that’s how she got rid of my drugs before,” Sherlock snapped. The pen dropped, and he shook his head. “Needn’t be too proud of that, you peeper.” The pen dropped again, anyways, and this time, John snorted.

“Like you said, she’s clever.” The pen dropped, and he laughed. “All right, you. Sherlock, you should have the results by now.” The machine beeped helpfully. “And?”

“And, we’ve got our man,” Sherlock stared at the readings. “Who used to be a woman. Oh! A revenge killing! He was getting back at those who’d scorned his initial efforts to be a man, every single backwards one of them! Excellent!” He clapped his hands and jumped up. “If you would be so kind as to text Lestrade, we have a killer to catch!”

“Because of course, your quicker fingers are suddenly broken,” John rolled his eyes, but pulled out his mobile obligingly as they left. “Ta for the chat!” he waved to the empty morgue.

Well, empty except for walls of bodies behind the small doors, and one mischievous ghost, who ended up saving a certain consulting detective’s life after he took a swan dive off the roof to save his friends. Molly honestly couldn’t believe he trusted her to save his life, but she did. She even kept his secret, even though she could have easily written “Sherlock lives” just for John. But John never came back to Bart’s during that time.

Of course, Sherlock told John how he’d survived the fall, and John came storming into the morgue not long after. “It’s a good thing you’re dead, or you’d be the first and only woman I’d punch in the face!” he yelled.

Molly shook her head. She’d seen John’s welcome to Sherlock on the latter’s face not long after he’d “returned from the dead”. It was hard to miss the effects of a Scottish kiss, or whatever they were calling it now. Pity it wasn’t a real kiss, but then, judging by the lingering perfume (Clair de Lune?), it probably wouldn’t have been appropriate. She merely dropped a pen and smiled when John shook his head, with his typical angry grin. She supposed it was a dubious honor to be given the same kind of grin Sherlock probably got before he got nutted.

“Your oddly gentlemanly nature would prevent you from doing that, anyways,” Sherlock said, “you’d probably smash a table or some such.”

John blinked. “Hm.” Then he picked up a rolling chair and threw it at the wall, where it made a terrific smash. And because it was cheaply made, the back and one of the wheels fell off. He continued to kick it until Sherlock dragged him away, the voice of reason, for once, as he murmured, “Come, John, you don’t want to get arrested before you can put your wedding plans together. I doubt your fiancée would think so kindly if she had to bail us out of jail less than a week after I’ve just met her.”

While John scowled, Sherlock threw a wink back at the empty morgue. Molly shook her head. Yes, she loved those two idiots, but she was relieved that John was back at Bart’s. She was surprised that he had a female fiancée, but then again, she wasn’t too far off from the other idiots who apparently thought Sherlock and John were together-together. Oh well…


End file.
